


Remorse is Memory Awake

by beaniebaneenie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Multi, PTSD, Physical Trauma, mental trauma, recovering bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:32:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaniebaneenie/pseuds/beaniebaneenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing about Barnes’ appearance looked any different, though the monitors told T’Challa that he was indeed waking up. His only warning was a slight twitch of the metal shoulder before cold blue eyes opened and Barnes ripped the thin harness off with his flesh hand before pinning T’Challa to the floor.</p><p>“Who are you?” Barnes growled, “Who are you working for?” He was breathing heavily, and though his actions so far seemed ferocious, T'Challa could sense the fear underneath. The fear that he was being used again. </p><p>“I am your friend, Barnes. I am King T’Challa, and you are here, in my facility. In the Wakandan jungle, as you requested. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and I will not hurt you. You are safe here, my friend. Steve left here last week, and I am waking you, as you asked me to.” </p><p>_____</p><p>AU, mostly Civil War-compliant. Bucky knows that he's a distraction to Steve, and that Steve is a distraction to him, while he gets his head in shape. He finds a way to deal with both problems and get himself started on the recovery he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going Under

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smithy_Smith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smithy_Smith/gifts).



* * *

Four days after Steve Rogers left Wakanda, T’Challa entered the clinical, white room where Sergeant Barnes was currently held in stasis, softly resting a hand on the clear chamber before entering a series of commands into the tech pad at its side. A soft hiss of pneumatic presses and gas, and the clear cover slid open, a chill spilling from within to the room around him, which had already been set to high fifties in anticipation of what he was about to do. Barnes twitched slightly, his senses beginning to wake. It would likely be a slow and difficult process for him, but T’Challa had promised him weeks ago that he would do his best to ease it. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he said softly. “You are safe, it is only you and I. I will not hurt you. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he repeated, keeping up the mantra, hoping that it would soften the transition out of cryo. 

Nothing about Barnes’ appearance looked any different, though the monitors told T’Challa that he was indeed waking up. His only warning was a slight twitch of the metal shoulder before cold blue eyes opened and Barnes ripped the thin harness off with his flesh hand before pinning T’Challa to the floor.

“Who are you?” Barnes growled, “Who are you working for?” He was breathing heavily, and though his actions so far seemed ferocious, T'Challa could sense the fear underneath. The fear that he was being used again. 

“I am your friend, Barnes. I am King T’Challa, and you are here, in my facility. In the Wakandan jungle, as you requested. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, and I will not hurt you. You are safe here, my friend. Steve left here last week, and I am waking you, as you asked me to.” 

He kept saying the words, until he could see them slowly sinking in, Barnes’ chest rising and falling, his forehead creasing with the effort of putting all the pieces together while also working to get his bio-rhythms up to normal. Whether it was five minutes or five hours, T’Challa didn’t know. But he saw Barnes look at him, eyebrows rising up, and then the man rolled off of him as quickly as he’d pinned him. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, his body shaking now, though whether it was from the cold or nerves, T’Challa couldn’t tell. “I- I’m sorry... I d-didn’t- I-”

T’Challa put a hand up to comfort him. ‘It is all right. I knew waking you would not be easy for me, but I dare say that it was much more difficult for you.”

Barnes closed his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath. “No suit,” he managed to get out after a few more minutes. “Dangerous. I could- I could have-”

“But you did not,” the king said with finality. “Whatever you could have done, you did not do it. I know you feel guilt over the things you  _ have _ done. Please, there is no need to feel it over pain you did not cause.”

Barnes looked at him with a heavy stare, then nodded. “I’ll try.”

“That is all any of us can do, is it not?” T’Challa said, smiling softly. “Here,” he added, pushing himself up to standing and offering an arm to the other man. “May I help you up?” 

The brunet hesitated, but took the arm, feeling himself wobble as he stood, not used to his body without the weight of the metal arm. “Thanks,” he said, the smallest of smiles coming to his face. “For this. And for not telling Steve.”

T’Challa nodded. “Captain Rogers is a good man. He cares about you deeply, but I could see that you are correct. He is too close to this. Besides,” he added, “this is your recovery. It must be your choice how to handle it. Your choices have been taken from you for a long time... I could not take this one from you.” 

He thought back to the meeting Barnes had requested a few weeks earlier, the one his bodyguards had been so reluctant to allow. To meet with the Winter Soldier, alone. But he had not seen the meeting that way. It was not a meeting with the Soldier. It was a meeting with a man who was scared, and lost. A man looking for a way to keep his friend from pain, and to find peace. Which is why he had gone, and why he had agreed to this plan. 

To tell Captain Rogers that Barnes was going back under, into cryo, for as long as it took to find a cure, a way to erase the programming that Hydra had implanted. To give the man some peace and rest in the meantime. And once Rogers had left, to wake Barnes again. If Rogers knew that Barnes was awake, he would not leave his side. Even if the world needed him to. T’Challa had seen this to be true. Rogers was rational, except when it came to his best friend. He could also see that Rogers being this close, this involved would not be helpful. Barnes was not the same man he had been before, it was not possible for anyone to be. He needed to be awake and responsive to determine which therapies would be useful certainly, but he also needed to learn who he was on his own. 

T’Challa knew Rogers would never have agreed to it, and so did Barnes. Which is why he hadn’t told him. And it was why T’Challa had agreed. Hopefully, someday, Rogers would understand. 

He helped Barnes to a waiting chair, and as the other man sat, T’Challa wrapped a soft blanket around his shoulders. “We need to get your core temperature back up to standard, and I am afraid that your meals must be liquid for the first few days,” he said apologetically. 

“Not my first time,” Barnes said, “I remember how it goes.” Looking up, he caught the wince that the king tried to hide and he sighed. “I understand. And I know you’re helping me. I- I may not be great at acting like a human... haven’t had much practice,” he said, trying to joke. “But I know you’re not them.”

T’Challa smiled, resting a hand on Barnes’ shoulder. “I am truly sorry for what you have been through... and for the pain that I have caused you. I added to your struggles when I should have stopped, and listened. But perhaps I can share some of your burden now.”

Barnes smiled ruefully. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone... not even an enemy. But thanks... that means a lot.”

* * *

 

The next few days were a strange mix of events, familiar to him, and yet jarring. The liquid meals were expected, as was the grainy taste - cryo killed off all the bacteria in his gut, bacteria necessary for human digestion, and he needed to replenish it before he could consume any solid food. The exercise was normal too... except he was allowed to do whatever routines he wanted. He had no direction on which muscles would be crucial for the upcoming mission, or how many sets he was required to perform before he was allowed to rest. 

Rest. That was the really weird thing. He was allowed to do that whenever he wanted. As much as he wanted. Wherever he wanted. 

The first time, after he had pushed himself through the first half of his standard post-cryo workout, he’d been looking out the glass window into the jungles of Wakanda. The sun had seemed so quiet and peaceful. He’d only stopped for a moment, he thought, just to admire it... and he’d been woken up to the soft press of a hand on his shoulder. 

His eyes had flown open, and he’d jumped to attention, stammering out an apology for falling asleep. It was unacceptable, he knew, for such a lapse to happen, and outside of his quarters too. He had tried to apologize, hanging his head, but T’Challa had just held up a hand and given him that soft smile.  _ “It’s quite all right. You are always permitted to grant your body the rest it needs, wherever you feel safe.” _

Safe. That was still something more of an abstract concept in his mind. Other people felt safe. Safe was how other people felt about where they slept and where they ate and where they went about their lives. Safe was wherever he wasn’t, because wherever he was wasn’t safe for anyone else. 

But he was beginning to grasp how other people felt about safety. Because true to his word, T’Challa hadn’t punished him for falling asleep in the gym. Or at the table where he ate. Or in the lab once, when a tech had been explaining possible options for replacing his metal arm. It was becoming something of a habit for the king to place a blanket around the sleeping soldier’s frame, and he found that it was a nice feeling... that someone saw him vulnerable and wanted to help rather than punish. Weird. Strange. But nice. 

He knew there would be more. That the hard stuff was still ahead. The work of figuring out what programming Hydra had left behind, and getting rid of it... and trying not to hurt anyone while doing it. He’d already punched the king twice this week. Not on purpose. The guy was too damn quiet whenever he entered a room. Bucky snorted.  _ Just like me _ . T’Challa had laughed though, instead of punching back. And he’d refused to accept an apology. “I should know better than to alarm you, the fault is mine.” And, “I will announce myself next time.” And he had. He was still too close though, and Bucky had landed another punch.

Despite the setbacks though, he could feel things happening. Moving forward. Progress. The last time T’Challa had come in after a workout, Bucky had turned sharply, muscles tensed, but he hadn’t moved to strike. This was good. He was getting better at controlling his own body here. 

Good. There were always a few rough starts after a period in storage. He knew he could get his body and reflexes under control. Best estimate was probably two, three more days before full physical functionality. Except his arm. That was gone. 

Maybe. T’Challa has said something about vibranium... the same stuff Steve’s shield was made from... and the cat suit. He wasn’t sure about it though. Another surgery, feeling the wires and the pinches and the shocks as people in white coats put things on him and in him and through him. Maybe it wouldn’t be like that here. Maybe. He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. Not right now. 

No, physical functionality was not his real concern. He knew the real hurdles were the ones inside his head. This would be the worst minefield he had ever faced. He had to do the very thing he had been programmed against. He had to take on the Winter Soldier... and the soldier had to lose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about due to the mid-credits scene in Civil War, and the ensuing comments by M&M concerning Bucky's reasons for 'going under'. There will be angst of the mental and physical variety, and there could be graphic depictions of violence as this goes on and Bucky works through his programming. I will add triggers/warnings as necessary. 
> 
> The title is from a poem of the same name, by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know your thoughts, I live for comments.


	2. Notebooks

* * *

After two more days, he knew he’d reached peak physical condition. Well, as good as he was going to get as a one-armed, ex-assassin. Maybe if he just didn’t mention the arm, T’Challa would forget about it too? Handlers didn’t usually forget about malfunctions though... 

_ Stop it. _ Bucky shook his head, running his hand over the stubble on his face, the texture helping to keep him present.  _ T’Challa is not a handler. I don’t have those anymore. I don’t need them anymore, because I don’t do that anymore. T’Challa is not my handler. He’s my friend. _

Friends weren’t supposed to do things to hurt each other, so maybe the next time T’Challa brought up making a new arm, Bucky could ask him what exactly that would mean, for him. After everything the king had done for him, Bucky wasn’t sure he could refuse - even if they were friends. Friends sometimes stopped being friends. Tony wasn’t friends with Steve anymore, though he said they used to be. 

The Steve he remembered would never have let a friend down... but this Steve, he had, with Tony. Sort of. Tony was his friend... but so was Bucky. And in choosing Bucky, Steve had let down one of his other friends. A lot of his other friends, actually. Hurt them, even. Bucky had tried to tell him that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he wasn’t worth that. Worth Steve’s new friends getting hurt. They may have known about the legend of the Winter Soldier, but they didn’t  _ know _ . He knew. 

And maybe, Steve did too. Steve hadn’t disagreed with him when he’d said that maybe Bucky wasn’t worth it. But when Tony had seen the video feed of the mission, Steve had said he already knew. Steve already knew that Bucky had killed Howard. Howard was Steve’s friend too. But Steve had picked Bucky. Again. 

Bucky kept making Steve hurt his friends. And maybe Steve did think Bucky was worth it... even if he hadn’t said so. Sometimes words were hard to get out. To know exactly which ones you needed, and what tone to use to make the other person understand what you needed them to. He knew that. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe Bucky really was worth all this. 

The only problem was, he wasn’t sure if he really was Bucky anymore. 

He wanted to be. God, he wanted to be. So badly. More than anything. He wanted to be tha man with the easy smile and the charm that made people feel comfortable and happy. The man who won stuffed bears for girls called Dot, who took Steve on roller coasters. Who reached out and hugged people, just because he wanted to, and people liked it. The man who was worthy of being Steve’s best friend. 

He had all those memories. He knew all the places, the names, the things that were important and the things that weren’t. He was pretty sure he knew who ‘Bucky’ was. And he was pretty sure that ‘Bucky’ wouldn’t have murdered his friends. He was definitely sure that ‘Bucky’ would never have murdered Steve’s friends. Or make Steve almost do the same things. 

Sighing heavily, he rubbed his temples to stave off the headache that was forming. He knew ‘Bucky’ wasn’t the Soldier. And that ‘Bucky’ had fought the Soldier, and the programming. That eventually, the soldier had won. 

* * *

Had he, though? The soldier followed orders. The soldier didn’t want anything for himself, because weapons did not want things. People wanted things, and weapons did not.

Well, he wasn’t a fucking weapon. He  _ wasn’t. _ He was a person, damn it, even if he was total shit at remembering how to act like one, with real emotions and everything. 

He took a deep breath. Except maybe anger. He was pretty good at that emotion. 

He knew about therapy. Talking to someone about your feelings. Them helping you figure them out, what they meant, how to process them into something workable. But how could that work on him? He was still having trouble working out which parts of his scrambled brain were feelings at all. 

The notebooks had been great. A place where he could put all the garbage in his head out in front of him. If he could see it, he could understand it. If he could understand it, he could work out a strategy on how to beat it. His notebooks were his lifeline. Proof that he was remembering things. He could tear out pages and put the memories in the right order. The ones with Bucky From Before’s memories, and the ones with the Soldier’s. And the ones since the helicarriers, even though sometimes those were the most disjointed of all. They were messy. His handwriting had gotten awful. All of Mrs. Berkowitz’s hard work, teaching him the palmer method in the second grade, and now his letters looked terrible. 

Proud. He used to be proud of his handwriting. He sure as hell couldn’t draw like Stevie, but forming his letters, that was something he could do. The guys at the dock used to tease him for it, but they all let him do the books and fill out the inventory sheets. There were never any complaints or mistakes when Bucky wrote out things, because his writing was beautiful. 

This was a new memory.... and a feeling too. It needed to go in a notebook. 

He reached around absently for the loose floorboard for a full minute before remembering that he wasn’t in Bucharest anymore. He wasn’t in his apartment. Everything else came rushing back like a ton of bricks. He had been taken. Captured. The notebooks were taken from him, and so was his mind. Again. The notebooks were probably long gone, or worse, being dissected - laughed at - by some government flunkie. 

He would have to start from scratch. 

No. No no _no_... he remembered everything... well, maybe not everything, but lots of things. He remembered everyone he killed. That was true. It was part of why remembering the other stuff was so hard. Humans weren’t supposed to have that many memories in their heads at once. Too many. Too much. It hurt. 

Everything hurt, why did they have to take the notebooks away? And the red one. The one he - Zemo - had. His handler’s notebook. That was the one that was dangerous, what had they done with that one? What if someone else bad had it? What if it was only a matter of time before - before someone said the words again. Pulled Bucky out and woke up the Soldier. 

He could feel his heart beginning to race, the air in the room feeling thin. His chest tightening like the time his handler had wanted to know how much pressure it took to get his ribs to crack.  _ No _ , he wasn’t there anymore. He was here, with T’Challa. T’Challa was his friend, he would help. Help. Help me.  _ Stupid _ .  _ You need to say it out loud _ . 

“Help...” he tried, and his voice sounded weak, distant. Fuzzy. What the hell was wrong with him? “T’Challa I- help, please-” and he was saying more things, making more noises, but whether the noises were truly words or not, he didn’t know. Everything hurt and there wasn’t enough goddamn  _ air- _

There were hands on his shoulders. His head snapped up, ready to fight, and where was his  _ arm _ , why wasn’t it doing what he  _ wanted _ -

“Barnes, you are safe,” the attacker said. Safe. Attackers didn’t say that. Neither did targets. “You are safe, my friend, it’s all right.”

Friend. Steve was a friend, but Steve wasn’t here. Commandos were friends, but they were all dead. Who else was there? Friends who were safe. Who would keep him safe. 

T’Challa. 

“Yes, it’s me.”

So he’d said that out loud. Bucky finally looked up and met T’Challa’s warm brown eyes. T’Challa was safe, it was okay. “Thanks for coming. I-” but he couldn’t finish the thought, breath stuck in his throat. He knew that he’d been losing it, thoughts and memories whirling around, his body not listening to him. What if- “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you did not. You didn’t hurt anyone,” the king answered the next unspoken question. “The camera you asked for,” he said, and pointed to it in the corner, “the microphone picked up your distress. What is wrong?”

He hadn’t hurt anyone. It was okay. Breathing heavily, he sat back against the wall, thankful that T’Challa stayed close, but still gave him room. Space to think. Slowly, after a couple of false starts and reassurances that he could take as much time as he needed, he explained about his notebooks. How they were important, and what he used them for. 

“It. It helped. To take the stuff in my head and put it out where I could see it. Something I could touch.” He looked up, and T’Challa wasn’t laughing at him. So far, so good. “I lost them.” It was true. If he’d fought better, maybe they wouldn’t have captured him, and he could have gotten away. Zemo wouldn’t have found him, and none of the rest of it would have happened.  _ He _ lost them. 

T’Challa was smiling that soft smile again. It was kind of nice, to know that someone could still smile at him. “If I remember correctly Barnes, you did not lose them. They were taken from you.”

“I shouldn’t have let anyone get that far.”

“They got far enough to have them, yes. But they did not get far enough to keep them.”

Bucky was confused. “What?”

“Last week, I took a quick trip to Berlin. Early summer there is beautiful,” he said, a bit of humor dancing in his eyes. “Of course, I only left my room at night. It’s always easier to break into government facilities under cover of darkness.” He smiled. “Your notebooks are here, Barnes. All of the notebooks they had. The backpack too,” he added. “I did not read them.”

They weren’t gone. He could have them back. They- “You stole them?”

T’Challa sat down, next to him, but there was space there if Bucky wanted- needed it. “Everyone else was given a receipt for their possessions,” he said, a hint of a smirk on his face. “The task force neglected to give you the same right for your property. If they were unwilling to abide by their own laws on the matter, why should I be?”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a half smile. That backpack was his too. He'd bought it, with real money. He'd thought about stealing it, but he knew that was wrong. There was an old man with a pastry shop- and a delivery truck full of flour and boxes. The driver hadn't helped him. Bucky did, and the man had given him money. He'd bought the backpack that same morning. It was a good backpack, and it was his. And now he had it back. “Thank you. I-” Then he remembered the other problem. “What about the red one?” He winced. T’Challa had broken laws for him. Gone over there and gotten his notebooks back. And the backpack. He should be grateful that he even did that, not asking for more. 

But the king didn’t seem upset. “That one may not have belonged to you, but it should not be in the hands of anyone else. The way I see it, everything in that book concerns you. I believe you have a right to know what it says, and to decide it’s fate.”

Bucky nodded. It was better than he could have hoped for. “I’ve never seen what’s written in that one. I know what they used it for. I know the words are in there,” he said. “And I know they used to make notes in it, when they were training me.” Bucky saw T’Challa wince and his eyebrows furrowed at the use of the word ‘training’, but he didn’t comment. “I- I want to read it, I think. But- not yet. I’m not- ready, maybe. But I don’t want anyone else to get their hands on it either.” He sighed. “I’m not making much sense.”

“Would you like me to bring all of the notebooks here?”

Bucky nodded. “Please.” Now that he knew they were safe, he was itching to get his hands - hand - on them, to check. Verify that all of them were here, account for all of his memories. But he didn’t want to ask. 

“If you’re feeling better, I can bring them now,” T’Challa said, displaying his uncanny knack for knowing what Bucky seemed reluctant to say. T’Challa was his friend though, and he never used this skill against Bucky. At least he hadn’t so far. But Bucky didn’t want to think about how T’Challa could hurt him. He wanted to trust him. 'Bucky' would have trusted him. Steve trusted him. (But T’Challa lied to Steve. Told Steve that Bucky wasn’t awake. Well, maybe that wasn’t a lie. The Real Bucky wasn’t awake yet. He was still locked away, buried somewhere inside. Almost Bucky. Almost Bucky, but Not Quite. Bucky But Not. That’s who he was. So maybe T’Challa didn’t lie to Steve, and Steve could trust him. If Steve could trust him, then maybe Almost Bucky could too.)

He looked over at the king and nodded. “I’m-” Fine was a lie. Good was too. “Okay. I’m okay.” That was all right. That was true. He was okay. Not great, not good. Passable to be left on his own for a little while. And he did feel better. He could breathe properly. 

T’Challa stood, resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder for a moment. That was nice. Touching without hurting. Touching to let him know that someone else cared what the hell happened to him, how he was feeling. Wanted him to be happy. Happy was maybe a long way off, but at least he wasn’t fucking paranoid here. Well, at least, as paranoid as before. Maybe he really would be okay. 

“Hey, um... T’Challa?” The king always looked down and seemed a bit uncomfortable when Bucky had called him ‘sir’ or ‘your highness’. Bucky thought maybe he liked his name better. And they were friends. “Can I have another notebook? An empty one?”

T’Challa smiled. “Of course, my friend. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, over a hundred hits in one day? Thank you! You guys rock. 
> 
> I'm going out of the country for a couple days this weekend, and I'll try to get another chapter done on the plane. If not, then there may not be an update until Sunday or Monday. Y'all are beautiful though, thanks for reading!


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